


a shift on our axis

by jemmasimmmons



Series: dancing in our world alone (let them talk) [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, i don't know but watch out for that, i managed to write something other than senseless fluff, possible trigger for hospital scenes?, what a miracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemmasimmmons/pseuds/jemmasimmmons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in his gut, there was a queasy, uneasy feeling and a cold prickle ran down the back of his spine. Fitz shivered, even though his room was the perfect eighteen point five degrees Celsius. </p><p>Something's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> This one turned out both longer and more Fitz-centric than I had originally intended, but I suppose those aren't exactly bad things! Part two ought to be up in just a few days, I'm nearly done with it.  
> This is slightly sadder and more dramatic than anything else I have put in this series, so allow me my dramatic overindulgence! I have a Valentine's piece planned next, but other than that I am open to any suggestions or requests you may have. I hope you enjoy this one!

Jemma Simmons never got ill.

This was a well-established fact in Fitz's mind. It was slotted securely in his brain next to the other concrete pieces of knowledge he had carefully collected over the years about his best friend.

He knew she had a cuddly toy giraffe called Grace, who lived on the end of her bed.

He knew how she took her tea – milk, two sugars.

He knew that she recited the periodic table under her breath when she was nervous.

He also knew that recently just looking at her for too long caused his stomach to jump, in a way that it probably shouldn't when one looked at one's best friend, no matter how pretty they might be.

(But that was besides the point. And also not currently relevant.)

But in all the time he had known her, Fitz had never known Jemma to get ill. Not even during the horrific week when their entire biology class at the Academy had managed to come down with a rogue flu virus. Jemma had flitted from dorm to dorm, disposing of used tissues, pouring out glasses of fresh orange juice and doling out pills like they were polo mints. She had been the only person to escape being sick, and Fitz still had no idea how she had managed it.

Jemma Simmons did not get ill. To Fitz, this was a fact, and Fitz liked facts. They never changed.

Which was why it terrified him so much when it happened.

 

 

He first noticed that something was wrong the afternoon before, when they were in the lab.

He was talking, explaining the mechanics behind the wiring of the DWARFS with an excited voice, when he realised that she wasn't breaking in like she usually did when he spoke, to mirror his enthusiasm.

'Are you even listening to me, Simmons?' he asked, slightly irked, and looked up at her from the prototype he was tinkering with.

Jemma was sitting on the other side of the workbench, one arm clutched over her stomach and the other rubbing at her temples. She didn't seem to have heard him. Fitz's stomach lurched unpleasantly when he noticed that her skin was tinged slightly green and her eyes were watering.

'Jemma?' he asked, licking his bottom lip anxiously.

'Hmm?' She blinked at the sound of her name and brushed her hand back from her face and into her hair, the kind of gesture she only did when she was tired. 'Oh, sorry, Fitz. Did you say something?'

Fitz regarded her cautiously. She was pale, paler than usual, anyway, and there was a slight tremor to her normally steady hands.

'Simmons, are you feeling alright?'

'What? Fine.' She frowned, and rubbed at her stomach, reconsidering her answer as he raised his eyebrows at her. 'A bit ropey, maybe.'

'Is it your...are you, um...'

A pink flush lit up her cheeks momentarily. 'Oh. Oh, no, it's too early this month to be...to be _that_.'

'Ah.' Fitz exhaled, his embarrassment quickly replaced by concern. 'Okay. Then what...?'

'Oh, Fitz, stop worrying,' Jemma sighed. 'Probably just something I ate at lunch. Ate too fast. Ate too much. Whatever.'

_You hardly ate anything at lunch_ , Fitz wanted to say, as the realisation hit him like a bucket of ice water.

But he didn't.

'I'll sleep it off tonight and be right as rain tomorrow,' Jemma continued, collecting up her files and shifting them into alphabetical order. 'Trust me.'

And, like the gullible idiot he was, Fitz did just that.

 

 

Things got even worse when they got home.

She had been quiet for the whole journey back but once they had opened the door to the flat, Jemma tossed her bag onto the kitchen counter and hurried into the bathroom, her hand clamped firmly over her mouth. Before long, Fitz could hear her retching.

For a moment, he hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Should he follow her? Offer to hold her hair, rub her back? Or would that just be entirely unhelpful?

He'd never been in this situation before, of having to take care of her. She'd had taken care of him, countless times, through colds, coughs, stomach bugs, the lot. She had a nack for nursing, for always knowing what he needed and what would make him feel better. She was also particularly gifted at coaxing him to take pills. Fitz didn't think he'd ever seen her not know what to do. Unlike him.

In the end, he settled for waiting outside the bathroom door, anxiously shifting from one foot to another, until the lock clicked and Jemma came out, her hair escaping from its tightly pulled back ponytail and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her upper lip.

She drew back when she saw him standing there, evidently startled and probably a little embarrassed that he had just heard her throwing up. Mentally, Fitz kicked himself. _Idiot_.

'Are you alright?' he muttered, his eyes flicking up from the carpet to her face in rapid succession.

'I...um,' Jemma leant back against the doorframe. 'I think I'm going to go to bed.'

'Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that's probably for the best.'

She nodded, and with a shaky sign, turned away from him towards her bedroom. Fitz hung back by the bathroom and counted to ten slowly in his head before moving back into the main living area of their apartment.

He collected a bucket from under the kitchen sink, and an extra pillow from the couch. He poured a glass of water and, trying desperately to remember what else Jemma usually did when he was sick, fished around in their DVD collection for their classic Who boxset. All these he brought into her room, where Jemma had curled up like a cat on her bed, her hands hugging her stomach protectively.

'Oh...thanks,' she mumbled, as he placed the bucket by her bed and set the DVDs and glass on the bedside table.

'S'alright,' he said, handing her the pillow, which she took gratefully and clutched to her abdomen. 'Do you need...?'

'I'm fine,' she reassured him, her voice shaking slightly. 'Honest. I'll just sleep now.'

He wasn't convinced.

But he still backed out of her room and quietly shut the door all the same.

 

 

For the rest of the evening, Fitz drifted.

The apartment felt invariably larger without Jemma bustling around him, picking up books and tools from the table, lecturing him about not wearing gloves when washing up. He watched TV for a while, with the sound muted and the subtitles on so he didn't disturb her, but turned it off after two episodes of Mythbusters. He made himself supper, or rather he fished a portion of leftover lasagne from the fridge and ate it cold, not wanting to use the microwave for its painfully loud 'ding' when the food was ready.

He sat on the couch, hands folded in his lap and tried to think through one of their projects, mentally visualising a problem with the blueprint and trying to correct it without pen, or paper, or Jemma. But it didn't work alone.

The apartment was too quiet. Too big. Too lonely. And, eventually, Fitz gave up.

He switched off the television and turned off the lights. He paused at Jemma's door long enough only to hear her breathing, coming in swift, deep gulps, and clenched his fists helplessly.

Then he walked into his own bedroom and shut the door.

 

 

Something was wrong.

Fitz knew it as soon as his body shifted back into consciousness from the half-wakeful sleep he had fallen into. He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but something felt off, like the world had shifted twenty degrees on its axis and everything was off balance.

He rolled over in bed and squinted at his bedside clock: 2:04 am.

Deep in his gut, there was a queasy, uneasy feeling and a cold prickle ran down the back of his spine. Fitz shivered, even though his room was the perfect eighteen point five degrees Celsius.

_Something's wrong._

Fitz pushed back his covers and swung his legs around to the side of his bed. Blood was pounding loudly in his ears as he staggered towards his bedroom door and opened it. He was halfway across the landing to Jemma's room, without fully realising it, before he identified what was wrong.

Someone was crying.

He didn't wait or knock before he barged into her room, just flung the door open and flicked on her light. Jemma was still curled up on her bed, but she had drawn her legs up to her chest and her covers were flung off the bed as if she had kicked out at them. She had squeezed her eyes shut at the harsh sudden light, but not before Fitz had seen the tears of pain leaking out of them.

'Jemma.' Her name tripped off of his tongue almost as fast as his legs strode across the small room to fall on his knees beside her, pushing her hair back out of her eyes so he could see her better. 'Jemma, what is it? What's wrong?'

She had tears streaked down her cheeks and matted in her eyelashes, and she sniffed long and hard before answering him.

'It hurts,' she whispered, her voice gravelly. She reached out and grabbed at his hands. 'It really, really hurts, Fitz!'

'What does?' he demanded, as if it wasn't obvious enough already.

'My stomach,' Jemma whispered, as she tried to prop herself up on one elbow but a wave of pain seemed to wash over her and she gasped.

'Oh god, it hurts!' She burst into a fresh wave of tears and collapsed against him, trembling.

Fitz held her, his heart pounding and mouth dry. Jemma's whole body was shivering, yet the skin of her hands that clutched at his own was burning up, as was her forehead pressed hard against his chin.  _Fever_ , Fitz thought to himself with a jolt.  _She's feverish_ .

Feverish, vomiting, severe abdominal pains...Fitz counted off her symptoms like he would count up wires in a machine.

_This isn't right._

Despite the fear that was gripping at his chest like a vice, the thought clicking in his mind was almost a relief. Something was wrong with her. Now, he could do whatever the hell it took to fix it.

Fitz exhaled deeply.

'Jemma, where are your shoes?'

'What?' she sniffed, her sobs subsiding slightly as her face twisted up in confusion.

'Your shoes, Simmons, we need to...ah!'

Fitz let one of his hands slide away from her waist to fumble about on her floor for the pumps she had been wearing that day, while the other still held her semi-upright on the bed.

'Put these on,' he instructed, thrusting the shoes into her hands. 'I'm coming right back, okay?'

Fitz scrambled to his feet without waiting for her answer, and ran back to his room, his own hands trembling. He pulled on a pair of trainers and snatched his car keys up from the dresser, hesitating for only a second before grabbing one of his hoodies from the bed as well.

When he got back to Jemma's room, he breathed out in relief to find she had managed to put her shoes on and was sitting up on the bed, but her arms were still pressed against her middle and her face was still scrunched up in pain.

'Here,' he muttered, bending down so he could drape the hoodie around her shoulders. 'Let's put this on, yeah?'

Jemma obeyed, her movements dazed and minute; Fitz did his best to guide her arms into the jumper as swiftly but as gently as he could.

'Jem,' Fitz said, trying to keep his voice low and steady but also trying to direct her attention onto him. 'Jemma, I need you to stand up now.'

She mumbled something Fitz couldn't make out but, holding tightly to his hands, she allowed him to heave her to her feet. Once she was up, he looped his arm around her back and let her lean on him, putting her full weight on his shoulder.

'Fitz?'

'Yeah, what is it?' he said, as they moved painfully slowly through Jemma's doorway and into the apartment.

'Where are we going?'

Up until this point, Fitz hadn't really known. He'd known he needed to get her up, to get her out of the apartment, but he hadn't really acknowledged exactly what he was going to do. But now, he did, with a cold certainty and a grim determination.

'We're going to the hospital.'

'What?' Jemma's voice was tinged with alarm. 'But-'

Her protest was cut off by what must have been another wave of pain and she gasped, her knees buckling from underneath her.

Fitz grit his teeth together as she stumbled, and moved his arm further up her back until it was just below her shoulder blades. He ducked down and slid his other arm under the backs of her knees and, with a grunt, lifted her up into his arms.

Now, he was even more convinced than he had been before that something was deeply wrong with her.

When he had imagined lifting Jemma up before (not that he did this particularly frequently, but it was natural to be curious about what your gorgeous best friend would feel like cradled in your arms, wasn't it?) he had always pictured her shrieking with delight and indignation, before demanding to be set down instantly, struggling her way out of his hold like water that slipped through his fingers like silk.

In reality, Jemma did none of these things. In fact, as soon as her feet left the ground she grew limp in his arms, folding herself into his chest and falling scarily silent. Her hands, still fiery hot, held on tightly to the front of his shirt, like it was her tether to the world.

Fitz swallowed hard and moved to nudge their front door open with his foot, sending it swinging back so it hit into the wall.

'We're going to the car, Jem,' he told her, even though he was ninety nine percent sure she wasn't conscious enough to hear him.

He bypassed the lift, which was unreliable at the best of times, and headed straight for the stairs. His heart was screaming at him to take them two at a time, to get her to help as fast as he could, but Fitz forced his head to overrule on that one. He'd never forgive himself if he dropped her, or caused her further injury.

Instead, he tried to hurry down the stairs, whilst still taking the time to check where he was putting his feet. It seemed like the most logical compromise, though the sound of Jemma's cry of pain still ringing in his ears was making it hard to Fitz to think logically.

The weight of her in his arms was also making it difficult. Not that Jemma was particularly _big_ , it was more the fact that _he_ was rather _small_. In the past, when he had imagined sweeping a girl off her feet (not that he did it _that_ often, bloody hell), he had imagined she would be weightless, that he would somehow miraculously gain the upper body strength to carry her for miles without tiring.

Jemma certainly wasn't weightless, but she wasn't so heavy that he was struggling either; she was a comfortable weight in his arms, one that Fitz was determined he could managed. He had to.

By the time they reached his car, Fitz was glad he had thought to put a jumper on her. It was fucking freezing; there was ice frosted all across the front and frozen over the door handles.

He swore lightly under his breath and carefully let Jemma's legs slide out from his arms until they reached the floor. She whimpered (actually whimpered, _his_ Jemma, whimpering) at the sudden movement, and burrowed herself further into his chest.

'No, Jem, it's fine, I just...'

Still trying to keep her propped up, Fitz leant across to yank at the door handle. Amazingly, it pulled open with only a few attempts and he was able to ease Jemma into the passenger seat and fasten her buckle.

Then, as if a cartoon light-bulb had appeared over his head, he hurried to the boot of the car and rummaged around blindly among the half-fixed gadgets and half-eaten sandwiches he had stored there until he triumphantly produced a tartan blanket. Jemma had forced him to stow it away there, after the disastrous driving lesson in the snow.

'If anything like that happens again,' she had said fiercely when he had protested. 'We could likely catch hypothermia and die before anyone has the opportunity to come rescue us.'

'What, and a blanket is going to be the difference between life and death?' he had scoffed at her.

'Just put the damn blanket in your car, Leopold Fitz.'

Now, though, Fitz was eternally grateful for his best friend's tendency to cater to worst case scenarios, because it meant he had something extra to wrap around her to keep her warm.

He brought it back around to Jemma's side of the car. She was lying limply in her seat, her eyes closed and her lower lip trembling slightly. Fitz winced at her obvious pain and tucked the blanket around her legs tightly.

'It's going to be fine, Jemma,' he whispered to her as he passed her ear, tucking a strand of hair back. 'Promise.'

She mumbled something incoherently, but Fitz didn't have time to get her to repeat it. He shut her door and raced around to the driver's side, shoved his keys into the ignition and jerked his car into life.

His promise was still ringing in his ears as they drove out of their block and into the night.

 

 

For a town where there sure wasn't a lot of nocturnal activity, the city hospital sure was busy on a Wednesday at three o'clock in the morning.

Fitz was strongly debating abandoning his car in a lay-by instead of parking it up, when he discovered a spot, five rows away from the entrance to the hospital, five rows away from help. He let out a deep, shuddering sigh and backed the car into the space.

'Hey, Jemma, we're here,' he told her as he opened her door, then saw that there was no danger of her responding to him.

She was deteriorating at an alarming rate; in the time it had taken him to drive to the hospital, her skin had gone from pale to taking on an unhealthy grey tinge Fitz didn't like and although her shaking seemed to have subsided, her skin was now freezing cold and her teeth were chattering.

He needed to get her inside, and fast.

As soon as he had managed to get Jemma on her feet out of the car, Fitz wordlessly bent down and lifted her up again, ignoring the fact that his arms were starting to feel more like lengths of cooked spaghetti than they did parts of his body any more.

Jemma fitted into him now, her body filling the gap between his neck and his chest in a way so familiar it made his heart ache. Fitz had to bite down on his sudden urge to kiss her forehead where it rested under his chin, to reassure her it would be alright again.

He was going to _make_ it alright.

Few people looked up at them as he staggered into the ER with her; he supposed half-conscious people dressed in mismatched pyjamas and hoodies were not exactly a rare sighting.

Luckily, a nurse dressed in light green scrubs came hurrying over to him before he had a chance to raise his voice or try and attract attention and enquired what the emergency was with a brisk voice that reminded Fitz eerily of the matron at the Academy.

'I don't know,' he said, then cursed himself as he realised how stupid that sounded. 'I mean, I don't know _exactly_ , but she's in pain, she's in a lot of pain...'

'Where?'

He saw the nurse motion over her shoulder to a pair of doctor with a gurney as she continued her initial assessment.

'Her stomach,' he explained helplessly. 'It started today, and it's been getting worse and I couldn't...'

_I couldn't make it stop_. Fitz swallowed the words and bit down hard at the sides of his cheeks to keep himself from crying.

The two doctors had arrived with the gurney and they placed it carefully between the nurse and Fitz.

'Sir, if you could just put your friend down and we'll take it from here.'

And, suddenly, even though his arms were aching and his back was on fire, the last thing in the world Fitz wanted to do was to let go of her.

His hands clamped involuntarily tighter on Jemma's legs and around her shoulders when the doctor tried to prise her out of his arms and he knew he shouldn't be fighting them, knew he should let go and allow them to take her off and make her better, but somehow he just couldn't.

'Sir, you need to let go now.'

The nurse's cool hands held him by the shoulders and, with a gasp, Fitz let go.

The doctors began to leave, taking the bed with Jemma on away with them, and Fitz's feet started to follow them, before the nurse's iron grip on his shoulders held him back.

A blind wave of panic washed over Fitz and he strained against her, his instinct to rush back to Jemma's side taking over.

'Sir, you can't go with her.'

_Let me try._

'Sir!'

Fitz watched helplessly as the gurney disappeared behind a set of double doors, taking Jemma with it and leaving him alone in a hospital at night with a hole where his heart was meant to be.

 


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a large clock on the wall too, that ticked aloud as it took count of all the seconds Fitz sat there, waiting, while she was somewhere else, hurting.
> 
> Fitz watched the ground and counted the ticks of the clock because, really, there was nothing else to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second part ran away with me slightly, mostly on account of a couple of phone calls and that ending scene. Incidentally, it also ended up slightly more comic in the middle than I meant it to be. But overall, I am pretty pleased with how this chapter has turned out and I hope you guys like it! Thank you for reading this!

'Sir?'

Fitz stared after the gurney, focusing so hard on the space between the swinging doors that his vision blurred.

'Sir, I'm going to need to take some details.'

He wondered where they were taking her. To surgery? A consultation room? His mouth grew dry as his mind raced over all the medical possibilities for her pain and found none that he liked enough to hope for.

'Sir, please.'

Eventually, Fitz had to give up. He let the nurse lead him over to a desk where he obediently rattled off their names, address and place of work, his usually sharp brain feeling dull and fuzzy.

'You're a part of the STEM research facility, yeah?' the nurse clarified.

Fitz nodded, remembering just in time the cover story S.H.I.E.L.D had for the Sci-Ops buildings.

He hoped no one asked Jemma about it. She was a terrible liar. Then he remembered that Jemma was currently unable to answer _anything_ she was asked and had to choke back a sob.

'When can I see her?' he demanded, his voice coming out thick.

The nurse gave him a withering look. 'I'm going to take you through to a waiting room,' she said. 'And you can wait there.'

She hadn't answered his question.

'When can I see her?' he repeated, balling his hands into fists over and over again.

The nurse sighed. 'I don't know,' she said simply.

 

 

The waiting area the nurse led him to was set aside from a corridor that was painted green and smelt like bleach. There were a handful of shiny, plastic chairs in neon colours and a low table covered in old magazines. There was a large clock on the wall too, that ticked aloud as it took count of all the seconds Fitz sat there, waiting, while she was somewhere else, hurting.

The pain at the bottom of his spine had faded to a dull ache as he sat hunched over in a luminous orange chair, elbows resting on his knees, foot tapping restlessly against the linoleum floor.

Fitz watched the ground and counted the ticks of the clock because, really, there was nothing else to do.

He had been there for maybe half an hour before the nurse reappeared, her sturdy shoes making definite clicks on the floor.

'Mr. Fitz?'

He had sprung to his feet as she approached him, heart in his mouth. She waved him back down, but Fitz remained standing, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

'Is she alright?' he demanded. 'What's wrong with her?'

The nurse sighed, as if there were a million other things she would rather be doing than having this discussion with him, and calmly explained that Jemma Simmons had appendicitis.

'Appendicitis,' Fitz repeated once she had said it.

'An inflammation of her appen-'

'Yes, I know what appendi-bloody-citis is!' Fitz snapped, then instantly regretted it. He ran his fingers through his hair with a wince and squeezed his eyes shut.

'She's been placed on the waiting list,' the nurse continued coolly, 'and we will get her into surgery as soon as possible.'

Fitz's head snapped up. 'What, she's not in surgery?'

The nurse bristled. 'We are incredibly busy tonight, but I assure you she won't be waiting long...'

'But she's in pain _now_!'

'She's been given a lot of medication to cope with the pain. I promise you, Mr. Fitz, your girlfriend is being very well taken care of.'

Fitz blinked in surprise at her wording. _She's not my girlfriend_ , he opened his mouth to say, then closed it again. He wondered why the hell the nurse had assumed he and Jemma were an item; it had happened before but normally with colleagues who had observed the two of them frequently. Then he remembered that her first impression of him had been him carrying her into the ER in a half-hysterical fashion, then she had had to physically restrain him from following her. Plus, they did live in the same apartment.

'How...how long?' he asked, quietly. 'How long until she gets the surgery?'

'It could be a few hours, maybe five,' the nurse told him, her tone slightly softer. 'Feel free to go home, collect some...' Fitz saw her glance down at his pyjama bottoms and grey t-shirt, '...things.'

Fitz swallowed back the lump in his throat.

'Or you're very welcome to wait here.'

He nodded. 'Yeah...yeah, I'll wait.'

'There's a coffee machine and a payphone in the corridor,' the nurse told him. 'If you need to make any calls.'

Suddenly, Fitz remembered that he had left their front door wide open.

'Calls,' he repeated. 'Yeah.' He patted his pyjama bottoms for money, before remembering that he wasn't wearing his trousers and therefore did not have his wallet.

The nurse gave him a pitying look and held out a ziplock bag full of quarters. Fitz wondered how many helpless, lost people she had had wandering into her ER in their pyjamas before she started bringing change into work.

He took the bag and gave her a watery smile. The nurse nodded at him.

'Take your time,' she whispered, then turned away to head back to the ER, ready to face the next disaster of her night.

 

 

Not for the first time in his life, Fitz was thankful for his numerical memory.

He was able to punch in the landline for their upstairs neighbours, the two biotechnologists, Mark and Connor, from memory and tapped his fingernails against the sticky plastic of the phone receiver as he waited.

The phone picked up on the sixth ring.

'Look, if you're selling solar panels, for the last time, we live in a fucking apartment block so you can shove your limited offer up your-'

'Mark!' Fitz cut in hurriedly, before he could find out where Mark would shove the solar panel offer. 'It's me!'

'Oh. Fitz. Dude, what the fuck kind of time do you call this?'

'Yeah, Mark, I know. Look, I'm sorry it's late...'

'It's not _late_ , bud, it's fucking _early_ , I can see the sun coming up for fuck's sake.'

Fitz winced.

'Mark, listen, I'm really sorry but I need your help...'

'Dude, you literally live a floor below us, did you really need to call?'

'Yeah, see, the thing is, we're not really at home.'

Mark paused on other end of the line. 'Please don't tell me you and Simmons have gotten yourselves locked in the lab after hours again.'

Fitz groaned. 'Mark, that was one time...'

'Because I'm not coming down to bail you two out again. I don't care how much your girl can bat her eyelashes, I'm not doing that shit.'

'Mark, listen!' Fitz raised his voice. 'We're not at the lab.' He sighed deeply. 'We're at the hospital.'

'Oh.' A pause. 'Shit.'

'Yeah.'

' _Shit_ , Fitz. What happened?'

Keeping it as brief as he could, Fitz recounted the nights events for him. When he had finished, Mark let out a low whistle.

'God.'

'Yeah.'

'God, I hope she's okay. Give her Connor and me's love.'

'Yeah, yeah, I will.'

'Fitz?'

'Yeah?'

'You needed my help for something.'

'Oh. Oh, yeah.' A little embarrassed, Fitz explained that, in their dramatic exit from the flat earlier that night, he had neglected to lock the front door.

'And I reckon Simmons would be kind of pissed if she woke up and all our stuff had been nicked,' he admitted.

'You can say that again,' Mark muttered. 'How the fuck did you forget to lock your fucking front door?'

Fitz rubbed the bridge of his nose. For some reason, he was unwilling to tell Mark that he didn't shut the door because he had been carrying Jemma. That information felt too personal, too close.

'I guess I was just a little preoccupied,' he said, a little shortly.

'Yeah. Yeah, sorry, buddy. I guess you were.' On the other end of the phone, Fitz heard Mark sigh. 'Look, don't worry. I'll sort it, yeah?'

'Thanks, Mark.'

'No problem. Just...Fitz?'

'Yeah?'

'Look after her, will you?'

Even though he knew Mark couldn't see him, Fitz nodded against the side of the payphone. 'Yeah,' he whispered. 'Yeah, I will.'

 

 

'Hello?'

'Mum, it's me.'

'Leopold?'

'Yeah.'

'But my phone didn't tell me it was you calling. Normally it flashes up your name when you ring.'

'I'm not calling from my mobile, Mum.'

'Shouldn't it do that anyway? If it's you calling?'

'No, Mum. It doesn't work like that.'

'Oh dear.' A pause. 'Wait, why aren't you calling me from your phone? And why are you calling me at all? According to this time difference chart you left me its...nearly four am where you are.'

'We're at the hospital, Mum.'

'The hosp-' A sharp intake of breath. 'Oh, God. Did you blow something up again?'

'Mum, that was one time, no...'

'Are you alright?'

'Yeah, yeah, _I'm_ fine.'

Another pause. 'Is _Jemma_ alright?'

'She's got appendicitis.'

'Oh dear. Oh lord. Poor wee thing.'

'Mmm.'

'Did it burst?'

'Did it what?!'

'Only, your Uncle Gregory, he got appendicitis and his appendix burst on the way to the hospital. Horrible, messy business it was. Couldn't walk for a month. Wouldn't wish that on little Jemma, poor love.'

'I don't know. They won't let me see her. Mum?'

'Yes, love?'

'Did I have ever my appendix out?'

'No, love. You had your tonsils out though. When you were six. I remember, I promised you that you could have ice cream after the operation. You woke up afterwards and straight away asked me if you could have the ice cream now.'

'Oh. Oh, yeah.'

'…'

'…'

'Leopold? Are you still there?'

'Yeah, Mum.'

'Are you alright?'

'Mum, I told you. I'm not the one with appendicitis. I'm fine.'

A deep sigh. 'That's not what I meant, Leopold.'

'Oh.'

'…'

'…'

'Look, try not to worry yourself, love. She's going to be fine, I promise.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

'Let me know how she is, how you both are.'

'I will, Mum. Promise.'

'Get some rest, if you can.'

'Yeah. Rest.'

'And, love?'

'Yeah, Mum?'

Another sigh. 'Call her parents.'

 

 

For some bizarre reason he had never quite figured out, Fitz had always likened the Simmons family to different varieties of cats.

Jemma was like a little calico kitten, the kind that wandered across your work and your chest like she owned it, then, when you tried to get mad about it, butted her head against you and gave a soft purr so sweet you didn't have the heart to move her.

Mrs. Simmons he'd only met a handful of times, but even then she had managed to leave Fitz with the lasting impression of a slightly neurotic short-haired, skinny tabby cat. She was perfectly pleasant but always on edge and alert, like she was permanently perched on a high ledge, amber eyes wide, waiting to spring on some unsuspecting mouse that crossed her path.

In stark contrast to his wife, Mr Simmons had always reminded Fitz being like a large, tubby ginger tomcat, the kind that would sit on the pillow on the sofa all day without moving and might possibly lift an eyelid to glance sideways at you if you sat beside them, but then would return to sleep.

Unsurprisingly, Fitz decided to ring Mr. Simmons first.

Jemma's father picked up the phone on the third ring; Fitz wondered if he had been sleeping right next to the phone.

'Hello?'

'Uh, Mr. Simmons? It's Fitz.'

'Fitz...' Fitz waited for the name to click in Jemma's dad's mind. 'Oh, yes, Fitz! Jemma's boy.'

'Um...If you like, sir, yeah.'

'Well, it's good to speak to you, then, Fitz. How are you?'

Good God, what was it with adults and wanting to know how he was?

'I'm fine, sir,' Fitz said, firmly. 'But I'm afraid...' He sighed. 'I'm afraid Jemma is, um, well, she's...not. Not fine, I mean.'

There was a sharp intake of breath on Mr. Simmons line and he went rather quiet. Then, 'Oh?'

'We're at the hospital,' Fitz explained, tripping over his words in his haste to reassure Mr. Simmons. 'She's got appendicitis, but they're going to remove it as soon as they can and the nurse says she's not in any pain cos they gave her medicine but I haven't seen her yet so I don't know if I believe-'

'Fitz.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Take a breath, son.'

Fitz took a deep, shuddering sigh and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple.

'Now, say it again. Jemma's got what?'

Fitz tried again, slowing his words down and explained the situation to Jemma's father, who was an excellent listener, and made appropriate noises at the right time to reassure Fitz he was still listening. At the end of his explanation, Mr. Simmons went very quiet.

'Sir, are you still there?'

'Yes, yes. Yes, I'm just...thinking.'

Fitz nodded, then remembered Mr. Simmons couldn't see him.

'Well,' Mr. Simmons said, eventually. 'Thank you for ringing, Fitz.'

'That's alright, sir.'

'I'm glad you did. It, um...'

Fitz got the impression that Mr. Simmons was struggling just as much as he was.

'It means a great deal, you know,' Jemma's father finally finished. 'Thank you.'

'It's alright.'

'I'll, um, give Judy a ring, let her know.' Jemma's mum.

Fitz breathed out in relief. 'Oh, good. Thanks, sir.' Then he realised how that had sounded and cringed. 'I mean...'

'I know what you meant, son. She'll probably take it better coming from me.'

'Probably,' Fitz agreed. Then, he cleared his throat. 'Uh, well, I'll let you do that then. And I'll ring you with any updates and as soon as she can I'll get Jemma to ring you too, and her mum.'

'That's good of you, Fitz.'

'You don't have to worry, sir,' Fitz said, suddenly desperate to convince Jemma's father that he was being earnest. 'Honest.'

'Oh, I'm not worried, Fitz.'

Fitz frowned. 'You're not?'

'Of course I'm not. You're there for her, aren't you?'

He hung up, leaving Fitz holding the phone close to his chest and his mouth hanging half-open.

 

 

Someone was calling his name.

There was a hazy yellow glow behind his eyelids and, for a brief moment, Fitz was confused about where he was. He wondered if he had overslept, if he and Jemma were going to be late getting to the lab again and it was her calling him, yelling at him to get his arse into the shower _right now_. But Jemma would never call him 'Mr. Fitz'. She knew, that with three PhDs between the two of them, he should technically be addressed as 'Dr Fitz'.

'Mr. Fitz? Are you awake?'

He was now. Awake, and incredibly uncomfortable, slumped across three hard, plastic hospital chairs. Wait. _Hospital chairs_.

Suddenly, everything clicked back into place, and Fitz's eyes flew open, his heart jumping into his mouth as the memories of the previous night washed back over him.

'Jemma,' he gasped before he could stop himself, scrambling back up into an upright position on his chairs frantically.

The clock on the wall in the waiting area told him it had just gone eight o'clock in the morning, which meant, Fitz thought guiltily, that he had slept for at least three hours. Anything could have happened in that time.

The same nurse from earlier stood above him, a clipboard tucked into her side.

'Miss Simmons came out of surgery a few minutes ago,' she told him.

'Is she-'

'She's going to be fine,' she reassured him. 'The operation was successful and we're expecting her to wake up from the anaesthesia soon.' She gave him a smile. 'Would you like to be there when your girlfriend wakes up, Mr. Fitz?'

_Yes_ , was what he was supposed to say. But, of course, Fitz rarely said what he was supposed to say.

'She's not my girlfriend,' Fitz blurted out. The nurse cocked her head in confusion, and Fitz tried to explain. 'She's...'

He hesitated, unsure. How could he explain Jemma to this woman, this person who didn't know them, didn't know that even their own friends called them by one name, instead of two? Could there really be words for what he and Jemma were to each other?

'...my friend,' he finished, lamely. 'My best friend.'

For now, that would have to do.

The nurse looked unimpressed. 'I still think she'd like you to be there for her, in any case.' She held out her arm in an invitation. 'Shall we?'

She led him down the green corridor so briskly Fitz had to half jog to keep up with her. They passed several open doors on their way; Fitz peeked into the occasional one and then instantly wished he hadn't. He had never been very good with blood.

The nurse came to a stop next to a closed door. Through the glass of the window next to him, Fitz could see a hospital bed, attached to a myriad of medical machines, and lying on that bed was Jemma, fast asleep.

Fitz's mouth ran dry and he licked his lips anxiously.

Sensing his apprehension, the nurse opened the door for him and gave an encouraging nod. 'She'll be awake in a few minutes,' she assured him, before ushering him inside and letting the door click shut behind him.

For a moment, Fitz stood stock still, staring at Jemma, lying on the bed, her eyes shut and her chest gently rising and falling in time with the rhythmic beats of the machines next to her. He felt strangely shy, for all his earlier panic and desperation to get back to her side. Now he was here, he felt frustratingly clueless about what he was supposed to do.

Slowly, step by step, Fitz walked towards the bed.

Jemma looked even smaller than she usually did, lying on her back with her arms tucked by her sides on the bed. There was a hospital identity bracelet tied around her left wrist and she had been dressed in a blue gown. Fitz wondered anxiously what they had done with her pyjamas and his hoodie, whether they would get them back.

As he got closer to her, the drumming of his heart against his chest began to lessen and his clenched muscles relaxed a little. Jemma's skin was still pale, but there was a rosy colour in her cheeks and her breathing wasn't as distressed as it had been the night before. She seemed peaceful, and certainly not in anywhere near as much pain as she had been when he'd last seen her. Fitz exhaled, slowly.

There was a chair next to the nightstand; Fitz took it by the seat and pulled it towards the head of the bed. Sitting that close to her, he could watch her breathing gently as he waited.

He found his gaze drawn to her hands, resting ontop of the pale blue blanket. Fitz had watched Jemma's hands work dozens of times, moving swiftly back and forth on their lab table, measuring out solutions and chemicals, her elegant fingers tapping out calculations at a furious rate. He'd also watched her hands doing things unrelated to their job: slicing carrots for dinner, twirling a bottle of beer around her fingers, running through his hair as she teased him in the summer sunlight. He'd spent a lot of time watching her hands. But he'd never really _looked_ at them.

Carefully, Fitz reached out and took hold of Jemma's hand that was nearest to him. She was warm to his touch, not burning like she had been last night, but there was still a reassuring warmth to her skin that reminded him she was still alive, still breathing. It felt silly, but he needed that. He needed to know she was alright.

Absently, Fitz started to rub his thumb in small circles over the back of her hand. Her skin was so soft, he thought to himself, not rough and calloused like his own was. It felt delicate, and paper thin, like the origami birds he had used to make in art class, to keep his hands busy.

Fitz tried to remember when the feel of Jemma's skin on his had become something he thought so extensively about, or when her safety was the most precious thing he could imagine. He supposed it must have happened sometime between leaving the Academy and where they were now, but other than that, it was anyone's guess.

And, to be quite frank, Fitz wasn't entirely sure he cared. It didn't really matter _when_ he had gotten to this point, just that he was _there_ , and that was a fact. And Fitz liked facts. They never changed.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he had been sitting there (Five minutes? Fifteen?), when Jemma began to stir. Her fingers began to twitch under his hand and he hastily pulled it back, just as she scrunched up her nose and turned her head on the pillow.

'Fitz?' she mumbled, her voice foggy with confusion and mild panic.

'Hey.' He bent forward, so he was closer to her and she could see him. 'Hey, Jem. I'm here.'

She opened her eyes, one at a time, squinting under the harsh hospital lights. Then, as her gaze focused on him, she smiled and at once all Fitz's tension from the last eighteen hours completely left his body. He reached out bravely and squeezed her knuckles.

'Hi,' he whispered.

'Hi,' she whispered back, giving his hand a returning squeeze, slightly weaker than his had been. Slowly, her features twisted into a frown. 'Fitz...where are we?'

_We, not I._

'We...ah, we're in the hospital, Jem,' he told her. 'Don't you remember?'

'We're _where_?'

She tried to push herself up into a sitting position, then halted part of the way there with a little hiss of pain.

'Ooow,' she moaned, sinking back down in defeat.

A familiar wave of panic washed over Fitz as he half-rose from his chair. 'What's wrong? Does it still hurt? The same kind of pain?'

Jemma's eyebrows creased together, in a very slow, deliberate movement. She was acting the way she did when she had had one beer too many; her movements drawn out and heavy, her voice slow and fuzzy. If Fitz hadn't known any better, he would have said she was drunk. For a fleeting moment, he worried about how much medication they had put her on, and whether an excess of it was what was making her so spaced out.

'It's not the saaame pain,' Jemma told him, drawing out her syllables like a small child. She was pouting slightly too. 'Just...sore.'

'Sore.' Fitz nodded. He could deal with sore. The knots of anxiety in his chest loosened again. 'Okay.'

'We're at the hospital.'

'Yeah. You had appendicitis, Jemma.'

'Oh. That's an inflammation of the appendix lining.'

'Yeah, that's right.'

She nodded and gave a contented little sigh, as if satisfied by her own knowledge, and turned her head towards him again. 'Fitz?'

'Mmhm?'

'How did we get here?'

'What, to the hospital, you mean?'

'Mm.'

'Well. We drove, I suppose. In my car.'

'Can't you remember?'

'Of course, I can, Simmons, don't be daft. We drove here.'

'I don't remember.'

'Yeah, well, you wouldn't,' Fitz told her. 'You were pretty out of it.'

Jemma frowned again. 'Then how did you get me down to the car?'

Fitz's mouth ran dry and he had to cough before he answered her. 'Well...I carried you down.'

Her eyes lit up, and her mouth twisted into a disbelieving smile. 'Did you really?'

'Of course I bloody well carried you,' Fitz grumbled indignantly. 'What, did you think I wouldn't be able to if I needed to?'

'Oh, I didn't mean that,' Jemma protested, but her remark was stifled by a yawn and her eyes began to glaze over, like a person hovering just on the edges of sleep. She looked up at him, eyes wide. 'Was I very heavy, Fitz?'

If she had been more conscious, and less doped up on painkillers and more likely to remember their conversation, Fitz might have said yes, and used it as excellent teasing material for the next decade or so. But as she looked up at him with her large, doe eyes and a look of absolute trust and vulnerability on her face, a lump appeared in his throat and for a moment Fitz thought he might cry.

'Nah,' he whispered back to her. 'Not heavy at all. You're perfect.'

'Perfect?'

'Yeah. Perfect.'

There would be plenty of time to tease her once she was more lucid.

Jemma smiled, then broke into another slow, long yawn. 'Fitz, I'm going to go back to sleep now,' she said decidedly.

Fitz nodded, then gave her a reassuring smile. 'Okay.'

Jemma nodded back, shutting her eyes with a slight sigh. Fitz had barely let the breath he hadn't known he was holding out before she had opened them again.

'You're not going to leave, are you?' she asked anxiously. 'You'll stay?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm staying.' Fitz reached over and took her hand again. After all, what was the probability she would remember any of this once the drugs had worn off?

'Where else would I go?' he whispered, but Jemma had already closed her eyes again and was drifting further and further away from him.

Fitz sat next to her, resuming the motion of rubbing his thumb in soft circles over the back of her hand and listening to the beeps of the monitors, until he felt his own eyelids drooping.

 

 

The nurse found them later, Fitz fast asleep on the edge of Jemma's bed, their hands still intertwined (and a small amount of drool on the blanket under Fitz's mouth). She shook her head. 'Not my girlfriend, my ass,' she muttered, before carefully draping Fitz's hoodie over the end of the bed and quietly leaving the room.

 


End file.
